another shag upon crumbs
beneath cushions on a sofa
that works to stage
empty fucks,
b movie groans.

‘where’s the toilet?’
then her door slams,
curtains open
and a work week begins.

gears warm up slowly,
wednesday, work starts
before attention dives
into a ‘here we are again’.

different sofa and boy
or perhaps he’s last month’s
‘yes, harder, keep going’ or
‘sorry, drank lots. give me five’.

the arm chair more creased,
fuck pumps forgotten,
flushes, clicks and slams,

and again, and again.

woken up at half seven
by a door slam out to her world
raging for lack of control
even though I’m due up too
as the night’s turrets fade
showers rinse and brekkie fills
before those hours ahead again
of procedure and patience
then, the second hand makes it,
gloved and scarved, now reversing
to microwaved, televised freedoms
spiralling into action replays
the eye lids easing up
pillows warming
colour upon clouds splashing
before another slam.